


Loose Ends

by Neftzer_nettlestonenell



Series: We Are 2011 [6]
Category: Robin Hood (BBC 2006)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-18 10:52:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13680216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neftzer_nettlestonenell/pseuds/Neftzer_nettlestonenell
Summary: Allan will eventually take over all fan fiction. At least mine. Here, he tries to tie up the titular "loose ends" of Much's ongoing legal action against BBC.





	Loose Ends

**10 March 2011 - 7:35pm local time - HAWAII - Island of Lanai -**  He had all four monitors up and running, each tasked with its own programs, and he had not even showered yet. It was to be another all-nighter, after all. Will and DJaq's high-school-aged daughter Molly Jane had been staying with him, and due to her visit he had fallen behind in his work.

The sounds of both the ocean and Imelda May's  _Kentish Town Waltz_  filling the tropical air about him, Luke Scarlet held his cup of Royal Kona coffee in one hand, efficiently writing code with the other. His hair was in need of a comb, and the pajama set he had worn to bed that afternoon needed a washing of its own. He looked up, beyond the landscape of monitors, through his bungalow's large open lanai that topped the gently sloping descent to the beach. From his seat here, with enough daylight, he could often see the white of cruise ships passing the island in the distance.

It was moments of perfectly comfortable, perfectly connected yet set-apart peace like this that assured him that he was not wrong to find such happiness, such relaxation after those years of toiling (though they had been pleasing enough at the time) among academe, research and scholarly papers, dusty study carrels and long walks up narrow stairs to find the citation he was looking for, often to discover he had yet further to dig to find the particular reference needed. 

The accessibility of the net certainly kept him from ever feeling nostalgic for that particular facet of his past life. He had done what was needed of course, in the beginning collecting and preserving the tales of Robin Hood and his merry men that had sprung up once any version of the truth had vanished with the people who had lived to witness it. But it had, over the years, spun out of control, becoming unmanageable, growing far beyond the boundaries of Nottinghamshire, then, of all England. The task he had appointed himself to had begun to seem too vast by half.

Anymore, advances in technology allowed him to feel he was enjoying an extended vacation. He thought he might wax his board shortly--before that needed shower--in hopes of taking on some early morning waves on the other side of his shift.

He pulled up his e-mail. As a webmaster it grew exponentially in number, despite his best attempts to keep current with posts and replies. But of course, one had to sleep from time-to-time. 

There, sitting at the top as it had been, unanswered for almost a week, was the request from Much. Luke was pretty sure it had been sent by Eve. After all, the text had none of the antsy impatience or dramatic desperation Much was certainly known for.

Having Much's legal troubles recalled to his mind (not that they had ever been far from it), he alt-tabbed to bring up BBC News and did a flash-quick search of recent postings to see if there was any progress listed on it. 

He did not know what to reply to Much (or rather, Eve). He didn't feel right signing onto the class-action suit. Even in its flawed state (and yes, he knew it to be quite severely flawed), the BBC series had done  _some_  good. It had meant something to people, like the ballads of old, the song cycles, and even the often mis-plotted films. More than the others, in his former academic pursuits as a noted Hood scholar and archivist, and prior to that as he traveled about gathering the stories and myths that had cropped up about Robin, he more fully comprehended what Robin--his existence whether it be 1199 or 2009--might offer the general population.

The world had not grown so very large, after all, that people were so far removed in their hearts from the one-time denizens of Clun, or Locksley, or even Scarborough. They still needed heroes, ideals to look up to. They still loved a good story, good besting evil, Robin and the gang saving the day.

No matter how he felt personally about the BBC's current particular translation, nor whether he shared Much's frustration with it, he could not bring himself to sign on to the suit and somehow repudiate the interpretation. After all, the legend of Robin had long been twisted and re-shaped to fit the mold of the teller, the need of the listener, long before the notion of the BBC was so much as a glint in anyone's eye. He would reply to Much (or rather, Eve) and as tactfully as possible let them know that with regret to stand apart from the gang, he would sit this one out.

He would attempt to explain his reasoning, but of the original gang, only DJaq and Marian had ever seemed to grasp what he did with his time, much less concede any importance to it.

The monitor that had BBC News up on it began to flash with an update--Japan, it reported, experiencing a massive earthquake, a catastrophic tsunami expected to quickly follow. It was not long before his other screen and phone began to whine for attention, communicating that the tsunami warning was to extend as far as Hawaii, and beyond to the U.S. West Coast.

Before even thinking of himself, of possible damage, destruction, even, coming to his oceanfront bungalow, his now-scrapped plan for a dawn surf, he pulled up his site, SherwoodForestFic.com, and posted under  _4Dan_ , his username there.

Luke's fingers (now of both hands) flew across the keyboard, generating the alert post and the necessary links to PayPal for making donations. With complete faith in his readers and posters, he knew Locke's Lea would see monies arrive for the coming victims and displaced persons in Japan before the impending tsunami even made landfall.

 

* * *

 

 **CANADA - Montréal, Québec -**  "Monsieur Lardner!" the switchboard attendant called, strangely away from her desk of incessantly blinking lights. She was so far distant from her post her remote headset barely remained within range of the base transmitter. She ran past the dressing rooms until she found her way to the one she sought, the single name of the occupying performer upon the door, letters spelling out simply, " _Lardner_ ", below the Cirque du Soleil emblem.

"Yes, my dearest, darling love?" the man within teasingly called. "What did you say your name was again?"

As she entered, she keyed his room's private line off the "privacy/refuse calls" function, reminding him that setting it thus prevented his receiving calls even when the woman on the other end of the line was telling her it was a bona fide crisis.

Lardner turned from where he was finishing the application of his stage face. "Fans, no doubt," he mock-sighed. "My adoring public--the very reason I turn off the terrible thing two hours before curtain."

"Of course, Monsieur Lardner," the girl agreed, doing her best to accommodate the notoriously elusive performer, only recently (and rather prestigiously) signed with Cirque. "Would you like to take the call? The lady states it  _is_  an emergency."

He beckoned for the use of her headset, eschewing the use of the room's handheld receiver. Inwardly she scowled, knowing his heavy, whimsical makeup was sure to smear onto the earpiece, if not the microphone, and when she took back possession of it, stain a strange section of her face tangerine for the rest of her shift.

"The lady says she is a Madame Huntingdon."

It would be hard to say, but something about his heavily-adorned eyes seemed glitter more deeply at this news. Catching this, she was not surprised when he shooed her away, out past his door, oddly needing no explanation of how to retrieve the call from the ( _she_  had always found) confusing digital telephone system.

"Lady Marian," the Fool greeted 'Madame Huntingdon' as the earpiece snapped to life. "How  _can_  I help?"

"He is not too well at present," Marian answered him, her voice sounding somewhat drawn across the international connection. She did not reference Robin by name. "You have perhaps seen some of the Sheriff's latest exploits online?"

The Fool considered for a moment. "Yes. I seem to recall someone texting me a link. Is he scuffed up badly?"

"No, not so very," she let him know. "Just a few days held in a damp warehouse, but of course he was off his meds--and he's had a relapse, just shortly after we got this far."

"May I inquire where you are presently?"

"Maine, just outside of Bangor."

The man who had adopted the name of a particularly prized (now long-dead) pigeon calculated in his head how long it would take him to travel that distance. "I'm onstage in less than ten minutes, but I will leave as soon as curtain calls allow. I am not on the call sheet tomorrow, and we are dark Monday. That should give us enough time to get you both settled, snug and again incognito. Did you have anywhere particular in mind?"

She sighed. "He's keen--even in his present state--to check on Haiti, the school and children there. I have told him we ought not journey anywhere so near the foundation's beneficiaries in the wake of that posted video, but he will have none of it."

The Fool smirked at the news of Robin, still very much in charge, and intuited, "and you cannot have him riled up so when he is ill."

Marian agreed. "So, Port-au-Prince it must be."

"Lady," the Fool offered to set her mind some at ease, "Haiti has fallen so far off the world's radar, even were someone looking for you after what has transpired with the Sheriff and BBC, they would not think of finding you--nor anything interesting--there."

A moment passed in silence as she accepted his reasoning. "As long as we are going," she asked, "might you bring some of your illusions with you? To charm the children?"

A long smile of relish grew across his painted face at the flattery of her making the request. His eyes closed briefly as he inclined his head. He drew on the necessary courtly tones of old. "As you wish, Lady."

"What a good Fool you are," she told him, her voice warm with relief at his coming assistance.

"Five minutes!" barked an under-stage manager with an accompanying knock at his door.

 

* * *

 

 **EGYPT - British Special Forces-secured location near Tahrir Square - LATE NIGHT -**  Allan had already been there a good fifteen minutes when Carter and his crew of elite forces showed up, returned from whatever they had been doing. 

_Ah, but he had almost forgotten what it was like to be caught so red-handed by men who, at any false move of his, would have him dispatched to the Great Beyond before he even found breath enough to protest or persuade._

"Hold your fire!" Carter shouted above the noise of weapons being drawn, more laser sight-generated dots upon Allan's chest and even his forehead than could have been quickly counted. 

"Stand down," Carter barked to the others, who speedily enough began to de-armor and divest themselves of their weaponry (well, most of their weaponry) as it became apparent Allan was a friendly, and acquainted with one of their top brass.

It was a damp sort of basement they were using as their base of operations, easily defended, but also easily fenced in. In the time it took Carter to remove the disguising black paint from his face a guard had been posted and someone had started what was meant to resemble a hot meal for all present.

"Your mate stayin'?" one of the men helping with the meal asked Carter.

"No," Carter told him, holding Allan's gaze. "No. He never stays anywhere too long."

"Nice to see you, too, Blondie," Allan shot to him as way of a greeting. Companionably, they shook and then interlocked fists.

Carter began to pull off his black jumper over his head, leaving (as had the others) only a tank shirt behind. "So what's it to be this time?" he asked, his voice pitched so that the others might hear. "The old ball-and-chain send you to find me?"

Allan winced slightly at Carter's reference to his own wife, not sure the other man was entirely joking. He knew little enough of Carter's present relationship, after all.

The other soldiers laughed coarsely at Carter's remark.

But Allan caught a twinkle in Carter's eye at the men's response, and chalked the crack up to battlefield humor, and perhaps the need to cover why Allan might have actually have come to seek him out.

"You much up on what's goin' on?" Allan asked. " _Not_  in the international community?  _Not_  of the 'changing the map of the world' incidences variety?"

Carter smiled, his mouth, as usual pulling more to one side than the other. "You still scrounging for signatories, A-Dale? Figured you'd have that more than sewn-up by now."

"Yeah," Allan agreed. "Lookin' for yours and Gis', actually, then I'm set to turn it in."

"Gisborne's?" Carter asked, with curiosity. "Figured you'd have had that some time ago."

"Yeah, well, he ain't as easy a  _mark_ ," Allan almost sniggered with the pun, "as might once-a been. He's off the grid, Man. Like tryin' to catch mist off the Thames."

"Nah," Carter scoffed, shaking his head. Somewhat gratified to tell the original 'information man' news. "Lives above a London chips shop in an unrenovated walk-up."

"And just how would you know that?" Allan bristled with not being the one with intel to share.

Carter shrugged. "Had to keep my eye on him for Richard all these years, haven't I? You heard me promise, same as all the rest did."

"Aye, I did. But I didn't know you were still at it--even with," Allan referenced the military setting and local unrest about him, "all this to manage."

"Well," Carter finally showed his hand. "I did lose track of him a few years back, but Luke, actually, sniffed him out for me--a library card of all things. And some internet stuff, online banking and whatnot."

"Luke?" Allan chuckled. " _Brilliant_ ," he declared, handing Carter his smartphone so that the former Templar and member of Richard's Private Guard might enter the proper coordinates to Guy's present flat.

As he finished sharing the location, Carter's brow drew into a frown. "But if you didn't know that I had Guy's whereabouts--why come all this way?"

"Welllll," Allan lengthened the word. "Much sussed out that I had forged your signature to the list, and he didn't take too well to it."

"So, what? He demanded you risk your life," Carter turned back to cast a glance at the other commandos, "to get the real thing?"

"Aye," Allan agreed, unable to suppress a grin at Much's recalled insistence. "That he did."

"Well, hand it over," Carter asked. "The longer you stay, the more problematic questions I'll have to answer."

Allan produced the necessary paperwork.

Carter skimmed through the legal jargon before taking out his pen. Conversationally he asked, "Seen much of Nell lately?"

"How's that?" Allan's eyes snapped into a suspicious slant.

Carter played innocent. "Simple question, I thought."

Allan let a bit of a challenge creep into his still mostly good-naturedly ribbing tone. "And what's she to you, Carter? You're a married man still, aren't you?"

"That I am," Carter agreed, enjoying deviling Allan. "And your ex is a single woman. As more than one of her fans in this room behind us well knows."

"What, this lot?" Allan scoffed. "Watchin'-- _ogling_ \--my Nell on BBC?"

"Well," Carter shrugged, "they get homesick, too."

Allan attempted to stifle a territorial growl. "She was quite well, actually, last time I saw her. Quite...fit."

"And how long ago might that be?" Carter returned the sheaf of legal papers, all signed. He had something of a coming-on grin about his mouth.

"Well, obviously too bloody long if you think you can get away with talking to me like that."

Carter let drop the egging-on quality of his speech. "Don't force her to steal any more company secrets, meant-to-be-destroyed video tapes, mistakenly un-shredded documents  _just_  to get your attention, Allan."

This unrequested advice rubbed Allan the wrong way. "That's about enough of a lecture outta you,  _Sir_  Carter."

"And it's about all the one I had in me to give."

" _Pshew_. You had your chance, back in the day, Carter. Wasn't you she picked."

Carter's eyes sparked at the challenge. "Didn’t have to forge  _her_  signature to that bill of divorcement, did you?"

"Bugger off," Allan told him, grabbing a handful of bread on his way toward the guarded entrance. He heard the other men's laughter, knowing that their mate Carter had managed to get Allan's goat.

As Allan moved in-between the shadows of the dangerous Egyptian night, threading his way back toward the acknowledged safe zone and from there to the airport, he resisted the urge to pull out the picture of little Aly he kept with him at all times and stop to look at it. 

He needed Gisborne's signature to put a bow on all these loose ends for Much's now grown-much-larger suit. He knew he ought to get himself with all haste to the coordinates Carter had keyed into his phone. He  _ought_  to.

But he was still, after all this time, Allan-A-Dale. As ever 'ought' had little enough to do with the paths he chose for his life.

He saw no reason why today--tonight--should prove any different.

**...the end...**

**Author's Note:**

> I kept thinking of Japan (tsunami) the whole time I was crafting "Why We Fought" and it seemed just too big a disaster for Robin & Co. even to take on. And I argued to myself that they would have to go in actually some time after the media attention died down to maintain their anonymity while doing all good things. But I felt strongly they needed to have some hand in making that situation better.


End file.
